


'Til My Fingers Bleed

by Baebadook



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pining, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Western Gothic, Yearning so Thicc it's basically tomato soup, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 03:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21367129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baebadook/pseuds/Baebadook
Summary: Clayton has developed something of a protective streak. He think's it has to do with the company he keeps.Matthew has finally found something worth holding on to, and not even God's gonna take it away from him.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 30
Kudos: 192





	'Til My Fingers Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with a fervor in one day because gay cowboy yearning came out of nowhere and kicked me in the chest. I dunno, I'm kinda proud of it.
> 
> Enjoy!

Clayton can feel Reverend Mason’s eyes on him all throughout the night. They’re just off of another assignment from Al, bellies warm with food and drink and pockets a little bit richer.

There was a moment there, where it was close. Closer than he’d like to admit. Bandits that had been making trouble, holed up in some remnants of a now desolate town nearby. Dealing shady deals and killing anyone who looked at them sideways. Clayton can still feel hot iron caressing his fingertips beneath fabric, heart hammering as the sharp crack of shots ripped air asunder. Perhaps he had been too careless, tried to take too many shots. Bullets had hailed upon them, clipping his upper arm and stinging like hellfire. Another had nearly taken a chunk of his head, instead burying itself into the wall next to him and scattering pieces of wood and dust. He had bailed back into cover, the wind punched from his lungs as he reloaded.

Needless to say, the good Reverend had been less than pleased with the sight. So, four bodies riddled with buckshots and a bandaged arm later, here they are.

The Bella Union is humming with all sorts of company, loud and obnoxious and mostly piss-drunk. Someone’s playing a jaunty tune on a piano that’s seen and heard better days, but it’s not the worst place to be. He downs his next glass and clears his throat at the sting.

Aloysius is floating around somewhere, always in his element when there’s a song or dance to be had. He’s probably wooing Annabelle and whispering honey-sweet words to her.

Miriam and Arabella have made something of a reputation for themselves with the ladies here, and he can see that the two of them have made a home in the corner of the room, conversing happily with Joanie, Katie, Whitney, and Celine. Brittany is chatting up the Reverend himself. The conversation looks amiable as he tilts his head back and laughs. He looks at peace with himself, considering the things they had done not hours ago. He can’t begin to wonder if that’s a good thing or not.

And every few minutes, brown eyes lock onto him. Smoldering. A piercing stare that feels warmer than the guns he’s held or the heady liquid he’s consumed.

Eventually Brittany seems to gather that she’s not his sole focus, not unkindly, bless her heart, and pats him on the shoulder before roaming over to join the gaggle of women.

There’s a certain kinda warmth that fills him when he watches over his companions, something that makes him feel at ease even when he should be running for the hills. He won’t, though. He thinks he’s a bit too deep in to back out, now. Shit, he was in too deep when he agreed to investigate a mining sight with four random strangers. He’s been long gone for a while now.

He twists back to face the bar and nurses his third drink, fingertips thrumming. He already knows that Matthew is going to approach him now that he’s no longer distracted.

There’s a smattering of laughter and Aloysius has shown himself once more, spinning Annabelle to the beat like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It makes his lips curl ever so slightly as they touch the cold rim of his glass.

“Mr. Sharpe.” There he is, sliding into the seat next to him with a certain ease that doesn’t match how big he is. He tips his drink at him in acknowledgement. 

“Reverend. Fine night?”

Matthew smiles and waves off the bartender, settling down to look at him.

“Better now that we’re not being shot at.”

“Amen to that.” Clayton drawls, fighting to hide another twitch when he laughs, sharp and quick in response. He’s getting too damned soft.

“Indeed. And speaking of,” he gestures a gloved hand at his right arm, “How are you feeling?”

Clayton makes a noncommittal noise. The wound still stings, but it could’ve been a whole lot worse. Arabella didn’t even need to stitch it up. In a matter of days it’ll scab over and heal. Kinda like this town does. 

"'M fine. Feelin' better knowin' the fuckers are taking a dirt nap." He watches him from under the brim of his hat, swirls a finger around the lip of the glass in front of him. Matthew's eyes fall to the movements, throat working under that pristine white collar. It had been splattered with red today. "Think I have you to thank for that."

For a moment Matthew doesn’t speak. Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and swipes a tongue across his drying lips. And then as quick as it had come he snaps himself out of whatever stupor has a hold on him and clears his throat. The barest hint of a flush catches the light and Clayton doesn't fight the smirk this time.

"God just gave me the steady hand to end them mercifully is all."

Clayton vividly remembers one of the bandits bleeding out slowly, still alive and trying to crawl away only to feel the sharp prod of a shotgun barrel pressed to the back of his head. He wouldn't really call what hell Matthew unleashed to be merciful, but whatever helps him sleep at night. He certainly wasn't complaining.

“Small miracles.” He says, without bite. The Reverend smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. There’s a possibility he’s every bit of good this forsaken town possesses. 

They linger. Knees almost knocking. Their companions find them at random intervals, whether to chat or for more drink. Matthew is at his side and it feels like this is the way it should always be. Eventually he stands, smoothing a hand over his cassock. 

“I should head out. I have to tend to the church for tomorrow’s service.”

“Ain’t no rest for the wicked.” Clayton comments dryly. Matthew laughs again, and even through the noise it’s the only sound he hears.

“Goodnight, Clayton.” He lifts a hand to his good shoulder, warm though his clothes and gentle to the touch.

“Night.”

They linger. Matthew pauses, almost as if he wants to say something but thinks better about it, and then his hand is gone. He slips through the patrons milling about and disappears out the door. Clayton swears he can still feel the weight at his shoulder. He polishes off his glass. Turns it upside down on the bar. Matthew sounds like whiskey tastes. He wonders, not for the first time, what _ he _ may taste like.

He’d have to be a fool not to notice that something’s happening between them. Spreading thick like molasses and coating every conversation. It pulls from him and simmers just below the surface; a powder keg with a lit fuse. He’d feel bad feeling some kind of way for a holy man, if the man himself didn’t fix him with looks like he wants to devour him whole. Looks at him like he’s found some worth in him that Clayton himself hasn’t. There are times when he wonders if the man is just truly ignorant in his gaze, or if he’s seeing things that aren’t there, but he has a hunch. It doesn’t feel hopeless; it feels inevitable.

* * *

Death was another inevitability, and Clayton believes his is in ink and papers and under the shade of a tree with a rope around his neck. These days he finds himself fighting harder than he ever has.

* * *

Seeing as dead men don’t say much, he doesn’t know if this band of thieves had any affiliations with the four men they had left for the birds, or if it’s a mere coincidence. He’ll never know with these types, and the latter certainly didn’t ask questions before shooting. Either way it’s a piss poor situation to be in.

Clayton sighs heavy and deep even though his ribs ache and rattle with the movements. He sets his jaw- that hurts, too- and adjusts the grip of his knife.

“Y’all okay?” He asks, voice sand and gravel. They had left them to their own devices for the time being. Probably til they figure out what to do with them. He squints to peer around the dim room, sunlight gliding through slats of boarded up windows. As his eyes eventually adjust he can make out Miriam, then Bella. Aly, propped up against the wall. Matthew in his periphery, as always, silent. Head bowed almost as he’s praying. Maybe he is. He’d be worried he’s stopped breathing if not for the slow shifts of his shoulders. They’re all hunched forwards, arms at their backs.

“Been better, been worse.” Aly pipes up, rolling his shoulders against the strain.

"Bella?" He hedges. He can see the way her frame shivers from here. He knows it's not from a chill.

"I'll be fine. Once we raze this place to the ground." She says, controlled and tight. He doesn't blame her at all. One of the fuckers outside thought it'd be a good idea to shove her around. He got his dues in the form of a spit to the face and the perfect imprint of a heel to his foot. There's a bruise developing on her left cheek and she holds her head high. Clayton thinks he'd be a little bit in love with her if he fancied women at all.

The blade slips in his grasp and he grunts, wrists straining against the rope confining them. He keeps cutting. "My kinda gal."

“I think we should be asking _ you _ that question Clayton.” Miriam. She’s the embodiment of poise, but there’s a hard ridge to her brow. Lips a thin line. She’s pissed. And the worst thing is he isn’t sure with who right now.

The bitter taste of copper keeps seeping onto his tongue and he turns his head to the side and spits. “I got a few licks in.”

And it was true. The bandits may have gotten the drop on them, but they had still put up a fight. Not that it had gotten them very far. It was like a switch had been flipped inside of him. Seeing those fucks disarm Aly and slam him to the ground. Miriam had dropped two of them before they got to her. The three of them being forced to the dirt was the match, and Matthew being overrun by four men at once was the spark. Something raw and visceral tearing out of him as he grappled, knuckles bloodied and bruised. Sinking a knife down to the bone of the thigh. He didn’t get to see the man bleed to death before he was knocked out.

He got beat on the most for it. It didn’t matter. So long as they left his friends out of it he could deal with a bruised face. The swollen eye. Blood trickling out his nose and down his chin.

“Looked like more than a few to me.” Aly says, smiling wryly, but his jaw is clenched so tight it falls a bit flat.

Matthew exhales slowly, and Clayton turns his head to pin him down with his better eye. He grunts, and-

The ropes that bind him snap like string.

Clayton’s fairly certain his entire body ceases to function for a few solid minutes. He stands, wholly unaffected by everyone staring at him in a mixture of awe and disbelief and rubs at his wrists.

“Miriam, do you still have that Derringer tucked somewhere safe?” He asks.

“Damn right I do.”

It’s good to know that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t get searched properly. Nobody counts on you carrying a second knife. The whole lot of them were bumbling idiots. Matthew goes to him first, kneeling down at his side. His hand briefly hovers, like he wants to touch him, and then curls his fingers into his side. Clayton notices it’s to stop them from shaking. Instead he gently takes the knife from where it’s still clasped tight in his hand and sets to work on his binds.

“Good. We’re gonna need it.”

They make do, like always. It doesn’t take very long for them to find where they have confiscated their weapons.

Bella gets her wish.

They’re getting their horses ready when they hear it: the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. It’s quite a feat, how quickly they all move to draw their weapons. 

It’s the man that bound them- boy, actually, now that they’re out in the daylight. He can’t be any older than 17. Half of Matthew’s size soaking wet. Rifle pointed at them, but he’s shaking so bad he can’t even keep his finger on the trigger. Clayton feels pity twinge at his heart, but his gun remains drawn. 

Beside him Matthew stills, so rigid he almost doesn’t breathe. The boy’s eyes flicker to each one of them, panting hard. It’s a wonder he’s still on his feet at all.

“What do we do with him?” Bella whispers, strained. Matthew hesitates, and takes a delicate step forwards, hands raised slightly to show his cooperation.

“Son,” he says, and there’s venom on his tongue but a smile on his face. There’s something dark and dangerous to him in a way that they don’t see often. Not sense those two idiot hecklers disappeared from Deadwood. Clayton feels a chill dip down his spine. 

He takes another step, and yanks the gun from his hand. It goes willingly, and the boy leaps back as if he was scalded. Still shaking, eyes wild. “I think it’d be best if you found yourself a new career path. Not everyone will be as _ kind _ as we have been. You understand?”

The boy nods. Desperate. Frantic.

“Go.”

He runs.

Matthew’s shoulders are a hard line long after they return home.

* * *

Death was an inevitability and Matthew has already died once. Surrounded by men just as scared as he. Hands smudged with gunpowder and blood. He doesn’t want to run away anymore.

* * *

Three days later Clayton finds himself at the church. He hasn’t seen much of it ever since the construction had finished. It looks, nice. Too nice for a broken down shithole like Deadwood, but he thinks that matches the man who tends to it.

And speak of the devil, he opens the doors, looking mildly surprised to see him standing there.

“Clayton.”

“Matthew. I’m- I know it’s late.” He trails off, words sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Oh. No, it’s perfectly fine.” He opens the door the rest of the way and steps back. “Come in. All are welcome in the house of the Lord.”

Clayton snorts, rolls his eyes. By now Matthew knows not to take offense. He steps over the threshold and subconsciously starts to remove his hat- Matthew catches him in the act. And his mama didn’t raise no quitter, so he continues, dangling it from his hand.

“Looks real nice.” He says once his mouth starts working again. Matthew turns to look and pride pours off of him.

“It’ll certainly get the job done.” Endearingly modest as always.

The pews have either been replaced or restored, just like the rest of the building. Their polish gleams under the lights. A thin blue rug splays over crisp floorboards down the center, leading up to the pulpit. It’s sturdy. It has four walls and a roof and windows. It _ is _ nice.

He feels out of place amongst it all. He can’t even be sure why he came here.

_ It’s a lie_.

He can’t get the image out of his head: Matthew stood, frozen, paler than he’s ever seen him. So off-kilter from a boy when they’ve seen men, women, and children pull themselves from their graves. When they’ve seen a faceless being curled in wisps of silken darkness wanting to play cards. Matthew’s eyes track him again. He doesn’t like eyes on him. But he doesn’t mind it so much when it’s him. In the end he breaks first.

“How’re you holdin’ up?”

Matthew shifts from foot to foot. Smiles, but it’s brittle.

“I’m doing just fine, thank you. They barely left any lasting marks.” He pauses. Clayton cuts him off before he can finish.

“That’s not what I meant.” He knows it, too.

He’s silent for a bit.

“I’m better.” It almost comes out as a question. He pushes on. “I think. That Deadwood has been good for me, as ridiculous as it sounds.” He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. Clayton nods.

“If you had said that to me months ago I woulda called you on your bullshit, but.” He swallows. “I’m startin’ to think the same thing.”

Miraculously, silence drapes the town of Deadwood tonight. The only break in that peace from a handful of the wildlife. It’d be eerie if it wasn’t so welcoming. He’s tired of hearing gunshots in the streets.

“What about you?” You took quite the nasty beating.”

Clayton shrugs off his empathetic gaze. “Healin’. At Bella’s behest.” He had got a good talking down from her when they returned home. From all of them, really. Aly’s was just a lot more passive and less aggressive.

His battered face is already starting to turn purple and blue in places. Bella had needed to reset his nose. There were quite a number of expletives thrown around, some that’d even make Satan blush.

They all have a matching set of fading rope burns. It’s rather befitting of them.

Matthew steps towards him, footfalls so loud in the space between them. His fingers twitch. He’s not wearing his gloves.

“May I?”

Clayton hesitates. Nods.

A hand, feather light, tilts his head up to a better angle. He can see the bruise poking out from the edge of his sleeve. He’s never seen his hands this close up before. It’s broad, just like the rest of him. Warn from labor, with callouses. Matthew looks at him so openly his breath catches in his throat. He’s not sure which one of them is trembling.

“When you went down- they just kept kicking.” Matthew says. He sounds wrecked, and Clayton’s heart _ bleeds_. The hand skirts along his cheek, brushes over the blotch of black and blue. It doesn’t hurt. “We thought we’d lose you. Thought _ I’d _ lose you.” His thumb catches his top lip. One of his own hands, dug into the fabric of his pants, grips at his forearm. Holds him there. Matthew doesn’t resist.

Clayton softly presses his lips to the pad of his thumb. Matthew breathes out a shaky exhale, eyes glistening. He looks at him like he’s a sight to behold. Clayton thinks it’s the other way around. He slides his lips lower. Presses a kiss to his the inside of his wrist, feeling his pulse quick and strong under his lips.

“”M right here. Not planin’ on goin’ anywhere.” His voice sounds rough to his own ears. Hoarse. He lets go of him.

There’s a beat. Matthew’s hand drops to press into his collar bone. And then he slides it to the nape of his neck, fingers curling into soft hair.

“Good.” He says, barely a whisper. “I want you here.”

He pulls him in.

The kiss is slow. A light touch of their lips together. It still leaves him feeling shattered. He drops his hat to the floor and clutches at the front of his cassock so he can pull him in and deepen it. Holds on to him like a lifeline. Like he’s the only thing keeping him up. In a lot of ways the sentiment is true. Pressure uncoils in his chest until he’s almost bone-limp in his grasp. He winces when Matthew’s stubble drags against his cheek and they pull away. His hand is still pressed against his nape, thumb rubbing softly over his skin.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” He’s so earnest he’d love nothing more than to kiss him senseless if not for his face. That’ll just have to wait until he’s in better shape.

“Not too bad, I’m okay.” Clayton tilts his head forwards so their foreheads press together. “We’re okay.” He holds him close, drinking him in. He has the strongest urge to protect this man. The selfish need to keep him all to himself. Matthew is a beacon and he wants to pray that that fire never leaves him. He knows one thing for certain.

* * *

Death is an inevitability, and it comes after anyone that tries to lay a hand on their family.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to anyone who takes the time to look at my fic. Any comments and kudos would be greatly appreciated, but only if you want to.
> 
> You can come chat with me on my Critical Role blog: https://baeuregard.tumblr.com/ Likes and follows come from my main blog shakenbaeky.
> 
> There's an UnDeadwood Discord server! Just hit me up either here or on tumblr if you want the link so we can cry together about it's inevitable end. There's theories, ships, fics! We got everything and we'd love to have you!


End file.
